The Story

This is my story, my telling. It was a Monday morning in a time that never existed. In a past that was fictional until it was revealed as a plot writing by a man-made ghost-writer, nevertheless it became this yesterday, this legend told to a child. Even though Mondays keep turning up as regular as clock-work hamsters, or as wheel walking somnambulists all those faceless namesakes called forth by a light-eating moon. Even though that particular page in a fading paperback was not recorded but only jotted down on a slice of burnt toast at the time, it happened just as I say it deed. I was ten or sometime after. I was late for school, I was running uphill knowing I would get a detention slip and then I stopped and walked into an open field knowing I was nobodies problem. I left town following a disused railway track and never turned back but then I must have because the following week Monday returned like a wet dog coming in from the rain. And that is that except it's all very hazy, however the day after Sunday keeps returning now to haunt my disappearing footsteps.